“Things That Tick Jesus Off”
Matthew 23:1-24:2 (NRSV)
Josh Rowley
October 4, 2009
I like this passage—which may surprise you. After all, Jesus comes across unpleasantly (to put it mildly). Matthew has recorded a Jesus rant. And I like it.
To understand why I like it, you need to know a little bit about our recent church staff retreat. The retreat was led by a church consultant who walked us through a number of exercises and conversations, concluding with an exercise that was designed to be mutually affirming. Focusing on one staff person at a time, we were instructed to name what that person most contributed to our church. We had the help of a list of attributes that included things like vision, flexibility, selflessness, faithfulness, graciousness, and innovativeness. One after another, each staff person was affirmed by his or her colleagues using these and other words.
I was the next to last staff person to be affirmed. In a strange twist, however, the first staff person to speak to me had difficulty speaking words of affirmation. (This staff person shall remain unnamed and has been forgiven.) Here is a paraphrase of the words in question: “You never let us be content with what we’re doing. Just when we think we’ve got something right, you point out something wrong. You’re always analyzing and critiquing; you’re hyper-critical. What I’m trying to say is…you’re a pain in the butt.”
Still feeling the sting of these supposed words of affirmation, I started to work with today’s sermon text a few days ago. And as I did, another word came to mind—vindication. You see, if today’s passage is any indication, then I am like Jesus. Jesus could be critical with the best of them!
Again, you may be surprised—not only that I am like Jesus, but also (and more importantly) that Jesus would criticize people as harshly as Matthew describes. Some of you responded to my request for input on this passage with concerns about how hard Jesus comes down on religious folks who might have been well-intentioned—one of you described Jesus (accurately, I think) as “irate.” This depiction does not fit our common sentimental images of Jesus. I suspect these images owe much to our suburban context, which is sanitized and comfy—and very different from the grubbier rural and urban contexts in which Jesus spent time. Mike Erre argues that we have anachronistically recreated Jesus in our own suburban image. He writes, “[This] suburban Jesus would never be so offensive as to demand that we do what he says: he is more interested in the security, comfort, and prosperity of his followers” (The Jesus of Suburbia, xv). As suburbanites, most of us probably prefer the depiction of Jesus we celebrated just a few weeks ago when we blessed children in worship. What happened to the Jesus who says, “Let the little children come to me”? Well, according to Matthew, “Let the little children come to me” Jesus and “You snakes, you brood of vipers” Jesus are the same Jesus.
Jesus likes children; but if you grow up, you’d better watch out. And if you grow up to be a religious leader, you’d better be especially wary. After all, Jesus targets the “scribes and Pharisees.” Another response to my request for questions about this passage included a query about the identity of the scribes. The Pharisees were a sect of very religious Jews; the scribes were members of their leadership—they were the senior pastors of their day. (Associate pastors had not yet been invented.)
But I am not so easily off the hook today; nor are you. You see, more important than the question Who ticked Jesus off? is the question What ticked Jesus off? For the things that ticked Jesus off in the past probably still tick him off in the present; and we are not immune to them. As Stanley Hauerwas notes, “Jesus singles out the wiles of the scribes and Pharisees for condemnation, but the games that the scribes and Pharisees play are variations on the games we all play” (Matthew, 197).
What are these “games”?
At this point, I could launch into a seven-point summary of the rant in question (after all, Jesus pronounces seven woes). Working against this approach, though, would be my short attention span, which maxes out at three points. Of course, three-point sermons are out of style—so much so that one of my preaching profs taught me not to “scaffold” my sermons with this form. But she doesn’t appear to be here today. Moreover, I went back and reviewed some of my recent sermons, and I found that none of them was an old-fashioned three-point sermon (in fact, one of them seemed not to have any point whatsoever). So, it’s past time for a three-point sermon; and it’s time for the first point of this three-point sermon.
The first game denounced by Jesus is that of saying one thing and doing another. Jesus says, “[D]o whatever [the scribes and Pharisees] teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach” (23:3). It is not so much the teaching of the Pharisees and their clergy that Jesus criticizes, but more their practice of this teaching. Jesus and the Pharisees have in common an appreciation for the Hebrew scriptures (what we call the Old Testament); yet they differ in how they interpret and apply these scriptures—in how they live them out.
In other words, what they teach sounds similar, but what they do looks different. Consider, for example, what is commonly called the Greatest Commandment, which we heard last week in Matthew. You may recall what Jesus said in response to a Pharisee’s question: “[Jesus] said to him, ‘“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets’” (22:37-40).
As we have tracked the journey of Jesus in Matthew, we have seen him practice this teaching; he practices neighbor-love by exorcizing the tormented, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, reconciling the estranged, and teaching the poor—in all these ways lightening the load of others. There is a consistency between his words and his actions; and this consistency makes Jesus trustworthy. The scribes and Pharisees also know and teach these commandments; yet, according to Jesus, “[t]hey tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; [and] they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them” (23:4). In short, “they do not practice what they teach.”
The first two woes, though obscure, suggest that though the scribes and Pharisees in theory want people to enter God’s kingdom, they in fact make doing so burdensome—which Jesus calls hypocritical. Hypocrisy among religious people—both leaders and led—continues to be a barrier between many people and God, God’s kingdom, and the church. A 2006 LifeWay Research poll of formerly churched adults found the hypocrisy of church members tied for second among reasons people leave the church. (The number one reason, by the way, was that people “simply got too busy.”) On this World Communion Sunday, we have a reminder of perhaps the most glaring example of hypocrisy in the history of the church. On the one hand, the teaching of the New Testament affirms Christian unity; on the other hand, the history of the church since has been one of division into countless denominational bodies. World Communion is an act of repentance.
While a failure to practice what we teach is obviously hypocritical, Jesus understands hypocrisy as something that encompasses more as well. Specifically, he denounces the scribes and Pharisees as hypocrites in four successive woes because they are majoring in minor matters. As Hauerwas puts it, “[This] next series of woes condemns the scribes and Pharisees for concentration on minutiae of the law rather than on weightier matters” (Matthew, 198). The scribes and Pharisees know what matters most—they know the Hebrew scriptures, their Bible, well. Nonetheless, their focus is on matters that matter little.
They focus on oaths—which ones are invalid and which ones are valid. Again, the specifics of the debate are opaque to us; what is clear, however, is that Jesus has no patience for this debate. As we heard him teach in the Sermon on the Mount, oath-taking is neither here nor there. What matters for disciples is truth-telling—simply “[l]et your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’” (5:37). In other words, just be honest. By focusing on oath-taking, the scribes and Pharisees major in a minor matter.
This tendency to major in the minors is heard even more clearly in the next woe: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel” (23:23-24). While the notion of tithing seasonings may sound silly to our modern ears, it is biblical—see Leviticus 27:30-33. But Jesus, too, has biblical support here; he is echoing Micah 6:8. Jesus is contending that scriptures emphasizing “justice and mercy and faith” carry more weight than scriptures emphasizing tithing seasonings. Again, the scribes and Pharisees major in the minors.
The next two woes continue this theme and are similar to one another in that they both direct attention away from appearances and toward motives. They recall the beginning of the passage, in which Jesus chides the scribes and the Pharisees for their concern about what they wear and where they sit. Whitewashed tombs look nice on the outside; but inside is a weightier matter—namely, death. Outward appearances are a minor matter; of greater concern are motivations.
Not practicing what you teach and majoring in the minors—these two tendencies might have been reason enough for Jesus to unload with a rant. Yet he has another reason as well. You see, the scribes and the Pharisees think they know all they need to know. They see themselves as teachers, not as students; they even accept the title “father” as an indicator of religious power.
In contrast, Jesus teaches his disciples that he is their only instructor and that God is their only spiritual Father. They are to be lifelong learners. They are to be students and servants. As persons who are humble enough to know that they have more to learn, they are receptive to a prophetic word and the prophet who speaks it.
The scribes and Pharisees are not. In the final woe, Jesus paints them as feigning admiration for the prophets of old. In hypocritical fashion, they are not receptive to prophetic calls—after all, they are teachers, not students. They think they know all they need to know. Prophets who try to teach them more will pay with their life; most notable among these prophets will be Jesus.
Of course, the scribes and Pharisees were not alone in their hypocrisy. Nor would they be alone were they characters in our contemporary story. As one of you astutely observed, “This passage lends credibility to those of us who condemn the self-righteous in the church—while we don’t realize that we are as bad or worse than they!”
What about us?
How might we better practice what we teach?
How might we major in the weightier matters rather than the minors?
How might we be life-learners?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Sermon on Matthew 21:23-22:15
“Why Jesus Had Issues with Religious People”
Matthew 21:23-22:15 (NRSV)
Josh Rowley
September 20, 2009
Last Saturday my children had a friend over to our house—a girl new to town from Connecticut. The girl had only been inside the door a few minutes when, much to my surprise, Sydney and Aidan started to ask her some pointed questions—pointed enough to pull my attention away from the football game I was watching.
Aidan inquired, “Do you believe in God?”
To which I thought, What if she says she doesn’t? Keep watching the football game; pretend you’re not listening.
The girl said, “Yes.”
Whew!
Unsatisfied, Sydney continued the line of questioning: “Do you go to church?”
Now I’m thinking, She believes in God—isn’t that enough for a first play date?
Thankfully, our guest again answered, “Yes.”
Surely, I thought, it will now be time to return to the previous conversation about whether vampires are real. But, no—Aidan was not yet done. Instead, he said, “Are you going to church tomorrow?”
Not even halftime and it was already time for a beer. Here I thought I was raising Presbyterians, and I ended up with Baptists! I imagined other parents talking about me: “That pastor has his children interrogate kids about their religious beliefs!”
I’ve been thinking about this conversation for days. Why did I react to it the way I did? While it’s true that my children’s assertiveness in talking about their faith was not especially Presbyterian, I hope my panicky reaction was based on something else (and I hope my children do not grow out of a willingness to talk about their faith).
I think my reaction was based on the knowledge that many people today like neither overly religious people nor organized religion. A recent Gallup poll found 67% of Americans believing religion is “losing its influence.” The same poll found 34% of Americans wanting “organized religion” to have “less influence” and just 24% of Americans wanting it to have “more influence.”[1] Moreover, indifference toward organized religion (at best) or disdain for organized religion (at worst) is likely to increase in coming years. George Barna has found that while 75% of the oldest generation thinks “being part of a local church” is “very desirable,” only 38% of the youngest generation shares this opinion.[2] So for all I knew, my children’s friend was part of a household that held negative views of the overly religious and of organized religion; and I did not want our guest to run screaming from our house.
Lest my intentions be misunderstood, let me say clearly that my point is not to criticize the views just described. On the contrary, I want to say that people who have issues with the overly religious and with organized religion are in good company. On this subject, they share company with Jesus.
You see, Jesus had issues with religious people. In fact, he had issues with the most religious people of his day. Consider that the three parables we have heard were first taught to “the chief priests and the elders of the people” (21:23) and “the Pharisees” (21:45); these teaching stories were directed at persons who had a wealth of religious knowledge and authority, persons who knew the scriptures, who prayed profusely, who tithed—persons who were known for their religiosity. Addressing these people, Jesus ran off one scathing parable after another. And they knew he was talking about them: “When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized that he was speaking about them.” So displeased were the Pharisees that “[they] went and plotted to entrap him” (22:15).
They probably could have tolerated just the first parable. Jesus tells the story of a vineyard owner who has two sons. The father tells the first son to get to work, and the son defiantly refuses to do so. Later, though, this son changes his mind and works. In contrast, when the father tells the second son to get to work, the son agrees to do so but then does not enter the vineyard. The second son has the right answer; but it is the first son who does the father’s will.
Jesus leaves no doubt as to how this parable is to be interpreted: “Truly I tell you,” he says, “the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you” (21:31). Like the first son, tax collectors (who are despised because they collect taxes for the Roman occupiers of the Jewish homeland) and prostitutes do not have the right answers; ultimately, however, they change their minds—they repent. Like the second son, the very religious persons to whom Jesus speaks do have the right answer—in fact, they have all the right answers. So religious are they that repentance—change—seems unnecessary to them.
Undoubtedly, the parable criticizes the priests and the elders and the Pharisees; but had Jesus stopped there, they probably could have stomached it. After all, who listening would have thought tax collectors and prostitutes to be better off than the very religious? But Jesus did not stop there.
Instead, he told a second parable, this one about a landowner who leases his land and moves away. Twice the landowner sends servants to collect the fruit of the harvest from his tenants; on both occasions, the servants are turned away violently. The landowner then sends his son, thinking he will be treated with greater respect. Instead, the tenants kill the son.
Again, Jesus leaves little room for misinterpretation of this parable. He quotes from Psalm 118: “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes” (21:42). Then he adds: “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom” (21:43). The son who is rejected and killed is Jesus; and he is killed not by irreligious people, but by religious people. As a result God’s kingdom is taken from the religious people and given to fruitful people—unlikely people like tax collectors and prostitutes. Apparently, “the fruits of the kingdom” do not include religiosity.
Matthew makes clear that by the end of the second parable, the tension between Jesus and his religious questioners had increased to an extremely high level. Jesus must have known as much—surely he saw it on the reddening faces of the chief priests and the elders and the Pharisees. Yet still he persisted, telling a third parable—and arguably the harshest of the three.
Certainly, it was this third story that most troubled some of you. Earlier in the week, I sent out an e-mail asking you to read today’s passage and send me any questions that it raised for you. All of the questions I received from you expressed reservations, in one way or another, about judgment—a theme that is most prominent in the parable about a wedding banquet. It has been my experience that many Presbyterians are squeamish about judgment language—language like “weeping and gnashing of teeth” (22:13). I have mixed feelings about this language. On the one hand, “hell” is one of my favorite four-letter words. On the other hand, it takes some work to reconcile words about judgment with words about love.
Let’s do this work. Let’s do this work by considering how the language of judgment functions in the parable in question. In this story, Jesus compares God’s kingdom to a wedding banquet for a king’s son. The king sends out invitations; but the invitees decline to come—they are busy with other things. The king then does what first-century kings commonly did—he wipes people out and levels a city. Then the king invites people off the streets—people whom some would call the riffraff. Of course, even after accepting the invitation to the party, the guests are expected to honor the king. A guest who shows up “without a wedding robe” (22:12) dishonors the king and suffers the consequences.
Who do the invitees who blow off the party represent? They represent the very religious people to whom Jesus is speaking. So, right after hearing this parable, “the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap [Jesus]” (22:15).
Apparently, the Pharisees and friends do not take seriously the threat of judgment. Yet it seems the words of Jesus were proved right just a few decades after he spoke them. In the year 70, Rome’s imperial forces burned the city of Jerusalem and leveled the temple. The center of Israel’s religion was destroyed, and with it the world of Israel’s religious leaders. Many of them were killed and cast out of the city into a constantly burning garbage dump called Gehenna—“a great, foul, smouldering heap.” When Jerusalem and the temple fell, there was undoubtedly “weeping and gnashing of teeth.”[3] And it’s very Jewish for Jesus and Matthew to interpret Israel’s defeat at the hands of its enemies as divine judgment; their scriptures (our Old Testament) describe the conquest of Israel by the Babylonians and others as the judgment of God.
We need not worry about San Carlos getting razed by Roman imperial forces, nor need we worry about our corpses or the corpses of our loved ones being incinerated in a giant garbage dump outside the city. But that’s not to say we have no reason to worry about God’s judgment. The possibility of divine judgment remains real. If we believe otherwise, then why would we value the mercy God has shown us in Jesus Christ? After all, if there is no possibility of judgment, then we have no need for mercy.
Judgment is not always obvious, though. It can take a number of forms. I have begun to wonder whether the decline of Christianity in the Western world is God’s judgment on the Western church. Has the church, like the religious people whom Jesus criticized, embraced religiosity? Is the church more “churchy” than “Jesusy”? If so, then we who are the church are more like the chief priests and the elders and the Pharisees than we are like Jesus. Perhaps the decline of Christianity in the Western world is evidence that the church is indeed more “churchy” than it is “Jesusy.”
You see, the people who less and less darken the doors of church buildings don’t have issues with Jesus; they have issues with the church. They Like Jesus but Not the Church—that’s the title of a recently published book by Dan Kimball. The book includes a number of quotes that help it make its point, including:
“I’m down with J.C. He’s cool” (Mike Dirnt, Green Day).
“If I refuse [a homeless person], I’d be like, ‘What if that was Jesus?” (Pamela Anderson).
“I really love Christ, and I think that the wisdom of Christ is the highest, strongest wisdom I’ve ever encountered” (Moby).
“I am a Jew, but I am enthralled by the luminous figure of the Nazarene” (Albert Einstein).[4]
“I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ” (Mahatma Gandhi).[5]
They like Jesus but not the church.
By the way, Kimball is a pastor at Vintage Faith Church in Santa Cruz. I worshiped at this church one sunny summer Sunday, and I was shocked. I was shocked because the sanctuary was packed with people in their twenties and thirties. I was shocked that these people were not on the beach. Oh, there were some older worshipers as well, sprinkled throughout the congregation. These were the remnant Presbyterians. Vintage Faith is housed in an old Presbyterian church building. When the original congregation saw that they were dying, they chose to do something bold—they chose to merge with Kimball’s much younger church, which was looking for a worship space. And now those Presbyterians know that they are taking part in what God is up to in Santa Cruz. How does Vintage Faith Church engage people in God’s mission? Well, put simply, it embraces Jesus and rejects religiosity. In other words, it does just the opposite of what the chief priests and elders and Pharisees did.
Now, you may be thinking, “We’re already there. We talk a lot about Jesus, and we’re not overly religious—in fact, we’re relatively gracious and easy-going around here.” I agree with these thoughts. There is at least one way, however, that we are guilty of religiosity. A few nights ago, the session had a long conversation about the need for this church to become more externally focused. As we talked, it became increasingly clear to the group that much of what we do is internally focused—much of what we do is done in this place rather than in the larger community, much of what we do is done with and for churched people rather than with and for unchurched people, much of what we do is an effort to maintain this church on this spot rather than show God’s kingdom in our neighborhoods. And near the end of the session’s conversation, one elder spoke words that are among the most telling I have heard in almost six years with you. The elder said: “Church and church activities prevent me from being more externally focused.” She went on to explain that with all the commitments she has here, she has no time and energy left to participate in God’s mission out there. God is not confined to a church building; the vast majority God’s work in San Carlos happens outside the walls of its churches. The irony is that church can keep us from participating in that work.
The good news is that God opens doors for such participation. And it’s healthy for us to recognize when one or more of us have stepped through an open door, naming “Jesusy” efforts for what they are—missional ministry. Ken Won, a member of Trinity, saw an opportunity in his unemployment. Over the summer, Ken started a web site that helps persons looking for employment by encouraging them with job search success stories. The site attracted so much attention that Ken was featured in a story in the San Jose Mercury News. The newspaper story attracted the attention of CNN, which had Ken on for an interview a few days ago. What most struck me about what Ken said in this interview was his description of the generosity of strangers toward one another. Doesn't sound religious; does sound like Jesus. Jesus wandered around and gave of himself generously to strangers. Intentionally or not (and whether they know it or not), Ken has discovered a way to help strangers act "Jesusy" toward one another.
We need to hear more stories like this one to refresh our imagination. We need to listen to one another’s stories and help one another name where God is at work in them. We need to celebrate these stories—like guests at a wedding who share in a new beginning.
Amen.
[1] See: http://www.gallup.com/poll/1690/Religion.aspx.
[2] George Barna, Baby Busters: The Disillusioned Generation, 50.
[3] “When [Jesus] spoke about ‘Gehenna’ he was talking about the Jerusalem rubbish-dump—a great, foul, smouldering heap” (N.T. Wright, Following Jesus: Biblical Reflections on Discipleship, 93).
[4] Dan Kimball, They Like Jesus but Not the Church, 53.
[5] Ibid., 37.
Matthew 21:23-22:15 (NRSV)
Josh Rowley
September 20, 2009
Last Saturday my children had a friend over to our house—a girl new to town from Connecticut. The girl had only been inside the door a few minutes when, much to my surprise, Sydney and Aidan started to ask her some pointed questions—pointed enough to pull my attention away from the football game I was watching.
Aidan inquired, “Do you believe in God?”
To which I thought, What if she says she doesn’t? Keep watching the football game; pretend you’re not listening.
The girl said, “Yes.”
Whew!
Unsatisfied, Sydney continued the line of questioning: “Do you go to church?”
Now I’m thinking, She believes in God—isn’t that enough for a first play date?
Thankfully, our guest again answered, “Yes.”
Surely, I thought, it will now be time to return to the previous conversation about whether vampires are real. But, no—Aidan was not yet done. Instead, he said, “Are you going to church tomorrow?”
Not even halftime and it was already time for a beer. Here I thought I was raising Presbyterians, and I ended up with Baptists! I imagined other parents talking about me: “That pastor has his children interrogate kids about their religious beliefs!”
I’ve been thinking about this conversation for days. Why did I react to it the way I did? While it’s true that my children’s assertiveness in talking about their faith was not especially Presbyterian, I hope my panicky reaction was based on something else (and I hope my children do not grow out of a willingness to talk about their faith).
I think my reaction was based on the knowledge that many people today like neither overly religious people nor organized religion. A recent Gallup poll found 67% of Americans believing religion is “losing its influence.” The same poll found 34% of Americans wanting “organized religion” to have “less influence” and just 24% of Americans wanting it to have “more influence.”[1] Moreover, indifference toward organized religion (at best) or disdain for organized religion (at worst) is likely to increase in coming years. George Barna has found that while 75% of the oldest generation thinks “being part of a local church” is “very desirable,” only 38% of the youngest generation shares this opinion.[2] So for all I knew, my children’s friend was part of a household that held negative views of the overly religious and of organized religion; and I did not want our guest to run screaming from our house.
Lest my intentions be misunderstood, let me say clearly that my point is not to criticize the views just described. On the contrary, I want to say that people who have issues with the overly religious and with organized religion are in good company. On this subject, they share company with Jesus.
You see, Jesus had issues with religious people. In fact, he had issues with the most religious people of his day. Consider that the three parables we have heard were first taught to “the chief priests and the elders of the people” (21:23) and “the Pharisees” (21:45); these teaching stories were directed at persons who had a wealth of religious knowledge and authority, persons who knew the scriptures, who prayed profusely, who tithed—persons who were known for their religiosity. Addressing these people, Jesus ran off one scathing parable after another. And they knew he was talking about them: “When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized that he was speaking about them.” So displeased were the Pharisees that “[they] went and plotted to entrap him” (22:15).
They probably could have tolerated just the first parable. Jesus tells the story of a vineyard owner who has two sons. The father tells the first son to get to work, and the son defiantly refuses to do so. Later, though, this son changes his mind and works. In contrast, when the father tells the second son to get to work, the son agrees to do so but then does not enter the vineyard. The second son has the right answer; but it is the first son who does the father’s will.
Jesus leaves no doubt as to how this parable is to be interpreted: “Truly I tell you,” he says, “the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you” (21:31). Like the first son, tax collectors (who are despised because they collect taxes for the Roman occupiers of the Jewish homeland) and prostitutes do not have the right answers; ultimately, however, they change their minds—they repent. Like the second son, the very religious persons to whom Jesus speaks do have the right answer—in fact, they have all the right answers. So religious are they that repentance—change—seems unnecessary to them.
Undoubtedly, the parable criticizes the priests and the elders and the Pharisees; but had Jesus stopped there, they probably could have stomached it. After all, who listening would have thought tax collectors and prostitutes to be better off than the very religious? But Jesus did not stop there.
Instead, he told a second parable, this one about a landowner who leases his land and moves away. Twice the landowner sends servants to collect the fruit of the harvest from his tenants; on both occasions, the servants are turned away violently. The landowner then sends his son, thinking he will be treated with greater respect. Instead, the tenants kill the son.
Again, Jesus leaves little room for misinterpretation of this parable. He quotes from Psalm 118: “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes” (21:42). Then he adds: “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom” (21:43). The son who is rejected and killed is Jesus; and he is killed not by irreligious people, but by religious people. As a result God’s kingdom is taken from the religious people and given to fruitful people—unlikely people like tax collectors and prostitutes. Apparently, “the fruits of the kingdom” do not include religiosity.
Matthew makes clear that by the end of the second parable, the tension between Jesus and his religious questioners had increased to an extremely high level. Jesus must have known as much—surely he saw it on the reddening faces of the chief priests and the elders and the Pharisees. Yet still he persisted, telling a third parable—and arguably the harshest of the three.
Certainly, it was this third story that most troubled some of you. Earlier in the week, I sent out an e-mail asking you to read today’s passage and send me any questions that it raised for you. All of the questions I received from you expressed reservations, in one way or another, about judgment—a theme that is most prominent in the parable about a wedding banquet. It has been my experience that many Presbyterians are squeamish about judgment language—language like “weeping and gnashing of teeth” (22:13). I have mixed feelings about this language. On the one hand, “hell” is one of my favorite four-letter words. On the other hand, it takes some work to reconcile words about judgment with words about love.
Let’s do this work. Let’s do this work by considering how the language of judgment functions in the parable in question. In this story, Jesus compares God’s kingdom to a wedding banquet for a king’s son. The king sends out invitations; but the invitees decline to come—they are busy with other things. The king then does what first-century kings commonly did—he wipes people out and levels a city. Then the king invites people off the streets—people whom some would call the riffraff. Of course, even after accepting the invitation to the party, the guests are expected to honor the king. A guest who shows up “without a wedding robe” (22:12) dishonors the king and suffers the consequences.
Who do the invitees who blow off the party represent? They represent the very religious people to whom Jesus is speaking. So, right after hearing this parable, “the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap [Jesus]” (22:15).
Apparently, the Pharisees and friends do not take seriously the threat of judgment. Yet it seems the words of Jesus were proved right just a few decades after he spoke them. In the year 70, Rome’s imperial forces burned the city of Jerusalem and leveled the temple. The center of Israel’s religion was destroyed, and with it the world of Israel’s religious leaders. Many of them were killed and cast out of the city into a constantly burning garbage dump called Gehenna—“a great, foul, smouldering heap.” When Jerusalem and the temple fell, there was undoubtedly “weeping and gnashing of teeth.”[3] And it’s very Jewish for Jesus and Matthew to interpret Israel’s defeat at the hands of its enemies as divine judgment; their scriptures (our Old Testament) describe the conquest of Israel by the Babylonians and others as the judgment of God.
We need not worry about San Carlos getting razed by Roman imperial forces, nor need we worry about our corpses or the corpses of our loved ones being incinerated in a giant garbage dump outside the city. But that’s not to say we have no reason to worry about God’s judgment. The possibility of divine judgment remains real. If we believe otherwise, then why would we value the mercy God has shown us in Jesus Christ? After all, if there is no possibility of judgment, then we have no need for mercy.
Judgment is not always obvious, though. It can take a number of forms. I have begun to wonder whether the decline of Christianity in the Western world is God’s judgment on the Western church. Has the church, like the religious people whom Jesus criticized, embraced religiosity? Is the church more “churchy” than “Jesusy”? If so, then we who are the church are more like the chief priests and the elders and the Pharisees than we are like Jesus. Perhaps the decline of Christianity in the Western world is evidence that the church is indeed more “churchy” than it is “Jesusy.”
You see, the people who less and less darken the doors of church buildings don’t have issues with Jesus; they have issues with the church. They Like Jesus but Not the Church—that’s the title of a recently published book by Dan Kimball. The book includes a number of quotes that help it make its point, including:
“I’m down with J.C. He’s cool” (Mike Dirnt, Green Day).
“If I refuse [a homeless person], I’d be like, ‘What if that was Jesus?” (Pamela Anderson).
“I really love Christ, and I think that the wisdom of Christ is the highest, strongest wisdom I’ve ever encountered” (Moby).
“I am a Jew, but I am enthralled by the luminous figure of the Nazarene” (Albert Einstein).[4]
“I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ” (Mahatma Gandhi).[5]
They like Jesus but not the church.
By the way, Kimball is a pastor at Vintage Faith Church in Santa Cruz. I worshiped at this church one sunny summer Sunday, and I was shocked. I was shocked because the sanctuary was packed with people in their twenties and thirties. I was shocked that these people were not on the beach. Oh, there were some older worshipers as well, sprinkled throughout the congregation. These were the remnant Presbyterians. Vintage Faith is housed in an old Presbyterian church building. When the original congregation saw that they were dying, they chose to do something bold—they chose to merge with Kimball’s much younger church, which was looking for a worship space. And now those Presbyterians know that they are taking part in what God is up to in Santa Cruz. How does Vintage Faith Church engage people in God’s mission? Well, put simply, it embraces Jesus and rejects religiosity. In other words, it does just the opposite of what the chief priests and elders and Pharisees did.
Now, you may be thinking, “We’re already there. We talk a lot about Jesus, and we’re not overly religious—in fact, we’re relatively gracious and easy-going around here.” I agree with these thoughts. There is at least one way, however, that we are guilty of religiosity. A few nights ago, the session had a long conversation about the need for this church to become more externally focused. As we talked, it became increasingly clear to the group that much of what we do is internally focused—much of what we do is done in this place rather than in the larger community, much of what we do is done with and for churched people rather than with and for unchurched people, much of what we do is an effort to maintain this church on this spot rather than show God’s kingdom in our neighborhoods. And near the end of the session’s conversation, one elder spoke words that are among the most telling I have heard in almost six years with you. The elder said: “Church and church activities prevent me from being more externally focused.” She went on to explain that with all the commitments she has here, she has no time and energy left to participate in God’s mission out there. God is not confined to a church building; the vast majority God’s work in San Carlos happens outside the walls of its churches. The irony is that church can keep us from participating in that work.
The good news is that God opens doors for such participation. And it’s healthy for us to recognize when one or more of us have stepped through an open door, naming “Jesusy” efforts for what they are—missional ministry. Ken Won, a member of Trinity, saw an opportunity in his unemployment. Over the summer, Ken started a web site that helps persons looking for employment by encouraging them with job search success stories. The site attracted so much attention that Ken was featured in a story in the San Jose Mercury News. The newspaper story attracted the attention of CNN, which had Ken on for an interview a few days ago. What most struck me about what Ken said in this interview was his description of the generosity of strangers toward one another. Doesn't sound religious; does sound like Jesus. Jesus wandered around and gave of himself generously to strangers. Intentionally or not (and whether they know it or not), Ken has discovered a way to help strangers act "Jesusy" toward one another.
We need to hear more stories like this one to refresh our imagination. We need to listen to one another’s stories and help one another name where God is at work in them. We need to celebrate these stories—like guests at a wedding who share in a new beginning.
Amen.
[1] See: http://www.gallup.com/poll/1690/Religion.aspx.
[2] George Barna, Baby Busters: The Disillusioned Generation, 50.
[3] “When [Jesus] spoke about ‘Gehenna’ he was talking about the Jerusalem rubbish-dump—a great, foul, smouldering heap” (N.T. Wright, Following Jesus: Biblical Reflections on Discipleship, 93).
[4] Dan Kimball, They Like Jesus but Not the Church, 53.
[5] Ibid., 37.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
On Atonement (Part Four)
Almost a millennium after he wrote, Anselm of Canterbury remains one of the most influential voices on the subject of atonement. He is sometimes credited with (or blamed for) the development of the penal substitutionary theory--wrongly, I think, as Anselm speaks more of God's honor being satisfied than of God's wrath being propitiated or placated. His thoughts on atonement are found in the famous work Why God Became Man (in Anselm of Canterbury: The Major Works [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998]), which takes the form of a dialogue between Anselm and an interlocutor named Boso (Boso asks questions, Anselm offers answers). It should be noted that this creative genre does not lend itself to precise--much less systematic--doctrine. Also, Boso is not an especially difficult debater; he frequently makes comments like "You are removing all the objections which I thought could be raised against you" and "I am happy to listen to whatever you say" (p. 286).
Anselm begins by setting forth a question he will seek to answer in what follows. "The question is this," he writes. "By what logic or necessity did God become man, and by his death, as we believe and profess, restore life to the world, when he could have done this through the agency of some other person, angelic or human, or simply by willing it?" (p. 265). Throughout this work, Anselm affirms the incarnation (that Jesus is God enfleshed); but as the question above suggests, he is for the most part content to see the incarnation's significance as a means to an end--that is, Jesus was born so that he could die. That which precedes Christ's death (the life of Jesus) and that which follows Christ's death (the resurrection of Jesus) get shortchanged. In contrast, the Gospels (with the exception of Mark, which has no post-resurrection narratives) place great importance on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus; and if space allotted indicates anything, then the life of Jesus is at least as important as any other part of his story.
Anselm's understanding of the incarnation also suffers from an inability to imagine that God might be vulnerable. Anselm writes: "[W]hen we say that God is suffering some humiliation or weakness, we do not understand this in terms of the exaltedness of his non-suffering nature, but in terms of the weakness of the human substance which he was taking upon himself [in the incarnation]" (p. 275). The view that all-powerful God is not at all vulnerable arguably owes more to Hellenistic philosophy than it does to the New Testament. (William Placher's Narratives of a Vulnerable God makes this argument well.)
Jumping from incarnation to cross, Anselm asserts, "What we have to investigate...is the question: 'By what rationale does God forgive the sins of men?'" (p. 282). For Anselm, it is not enough to believe that God, as revealed in and by Jesus Christ, is merciful. He deems it "unfitting" (a word he uses multiple times) for God simply "to forgive a sin out of mercy" (pp. 284-286). One reason Anselm finds it so has to do with his medieval concept of honor, which was important to the order of feudal societies. In these societies, lords were wealthy landowners who allowed people to live on their lands in exchange for work; when vassals did something to dishonor their lord, they owed the lord a debt that they were required to pay. As one who lived in this world, it was not difficult for Anselm to see similarities between God and lord. So he writes, "It is impossible for God to lose his honour" (p. 287). Put another way, it is impossible for God to be vulnerable. That Anselm does believe some things to be beyond the realm of possibility for God seems clear when he adds, "Consider it, then, an absolute certainty, that God cannot remit a sin unpunished, without recompense, that is, without the voluntary paying off of a debt" (p. 302). Anselm is inconsistent, however, later writing, "We have already said that it is incorrect to say of God that he 'cannot do something' or that he 'does it of necessity'" (p. 343).
The reason for this inconsistency is clear: Anselm does not want to acknowledge the possibility that God can simply declare sins forgiven, despite the fact that he knows "for God all things are possible" (Mark 10:27; see also Luke 1:37). Also problematic for Anselm's argument are biblical stories in which sins are declared forgiven (Mark 2:5 and Luke 7:48, for example). When attention is focused on Jesus, God's supreme self-disclosure, there is seen a merciful creator who is not limited to the understandings of Hellenistic philosophy and feudalistic culture. Rather than celebrate God's mercy (or, at least, hold it in tension alongside God's justice), Anselm devalues it by making it conditional: God shows mercy on the condition that justice (understood, in medieval fashion, as retributive rather than restorative) is first met (p. 311). By this way of thinking, God is not really merciful by nature, but instead is made merciful after seeing injustice punished. The possibility that in Christ God showed the world that mercy is just and justice should be merciful seems to be beyond the horizon of Anselm's imagination.
to be continued
Anselm begins by setting forth a question he will seek to answer in what follows. "The question is this," he writes. "By what logic or necessity did God become man, and by his death, as we believe and profess, restore life to the world, when he could have done this through the agency of some other person, angelic or human, or simply by willing it?" (p. 265). Throughout this work, Anselm affirms the incarnation (that Jesus is God enfleshed); but as the question above suggests, he is for the most part content to see the incarnation's significance as a means to an end--that is, Jesus was born so that he could die. That which precedes Christ's death (the life of Jesus) and that which follows Christ's death (the resurrection of Jesus) get shortchanged. In contrast, the Gospels (with the exception of Mark, which has no post-resurrection narratives) place great importance on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus; and if space allotted indicates anything, then the life of Jesus is at least as important as any other part of his story.
Anselm's understanding of the incarnation also suffers from an inability to imagine that God might be vulnerable. Anselm writes: "[W]hen we say that God is suffering some humiliation or weakness, we do not understand this in terms of the exaltedness of his non-suffering nature, but in terms of the weakness of the human substance which he was taking upon himself [in the incarnation]" (p. 275). The view that all-powerful God is not at all vulnerable arguably owes more to Hellenistic philosophy than it does to the New Testament. (William Placher's Narratives of a Vulnerable God makes this argument well.)
Jumping from incarnation to cross, Anselm asserts, "What we have to investigate...is the question: 'By what rationale does God forgive the sins of men?'" (p. 282). For Anselm, it is not enough to believe that God, as revealed in and by Jesus Christ, is merciful. He deems it "unfitting" (a word he uses multiple times) for God simply "to forgive a sin out of mercy" (pp. 284-286). One reason Anselm finds it so has to do with his medieval concept of honor, which was important to the order of feudal societies. In these societies, lords were wealthy landowners who allowed people to live on their lands in exchange for work; when vassals did something to dishonor their lord, they owed the lord a debt that they were required to pay. As one who lived in this world, it was not difficult for Anselm to see similarities between God and lord. So he writes, "It is impossible for God to lose his honour" (p. 287). Put another way, it is impossible for God to be vulnerable. That Anselm does believe some things to be beyond the realm of possibility for God seems clear when he adds, "Consider it, then, an absolute certainty, that God cannot remit a sin unpunished, without recompense, that is, without the voluntary paying off of a debt" (p. 302). Anselm is inconsistent, however, later writing, "We have already said that it is incorrect to say of God that he 'cannot do something' or that he 'does it of necessity'" (p. 343).
The reason for this inconsistency is clear: Anselm does not want to acknowledge the possibility that God can simply declare sins forgiven, despite the fact that he knows "for God all things are possible" (Mark 10:27; see also Luke 1:37). Also problematic for Anselm's argument are biblical stories in which sins are declared forgiven (Mark 2:5 and Luke 7:48, for example). When attention is focused on Jesus, God's supreme self-disclosure, there is seen a merciful creator who is not limited to the understandings of Hellenistic philosophy and feudalistic culture. Rather than celebrate God's mercy (or, at least, hold it in tension alongside God's justice), Anselm devalues it by making it conditional: God shows mercy on the condition that justice (understood, in medieval fashion, as retributive rather than restorative) is first met (p. 311). By this way of thinking, God is not really merciful by nature, but instead is made merciful after seeing injustice punished. The possibility that in Christ God showed the world that mercy is just and justice should be merciful seems to be beyond the horizon of Anselm's imagination.
to be continued
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Issues: Health Care
Our senior pastor boldly mentioned health care in her sermon two days ago, and even this brief mention was enough to spark multiple conversations during our fellowship following worship. I have been surprised at the rancor this issue has generated. A few days ago, I came across a theological perspective from Methodist William Willimon that seems to me to be more helpful (not to mention more Christian) than some of the ideological rants heard in recent weeks. Willimon's thoughts can be read at http://willimon.blogspot.com/2009/08/thinking-like-christians-about-health.html.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
On Atonement (Part Three)
Augustine of Hippo (late fourth to early fifth century) has been one of the most influential theologians in the history of Christianity. In fact, he has arguably had more influence on the church universal than any other writer since Paul. Among his most famous works is City of God, which is his attempt to make sense of the new situation after Constantine. Christians had moved from a persecuted minority to a position of power. While Augustine's response of calling for participation in both the earthly city and the heavenly city on their own terms has had critics (Gerhard Lohfink in Jesus and Community, for example, blames Augustine for the loss by the church of its self-understanding as a contrast-society in the world), no one can seriously deny Augustine's impact.
Scattered throughout City of God are references to the saving work of Jesus Christ (what the Christian tradition has often termed "atonement"), including this paragraph:
Scattered throughout City of God are references to the saving work of Jesus Christ (what the Christian tradition has often termed "atonement"), including this paragraph:
Christ Jesus, Himself man, is the true Mediator, for, inasmuch as He took the "form of a slave," He became the "Mediator between God and men." In His character as God, He receives sacrifices in union with the Father, with whom He is one God; yet He chose, in His character as a slave, to be Himself the Sacrifice rather than to receive it, lest any one might take occasion to think that sacrifice could be rendered to a creature. Thus it is that He is both the Priest who offers and the Oblation that is offered. And it was His will that as a sacrament of this reality there should be the daily sacrifice of the Church, which, being the Body of Him, her Head, learns to offer itself through Him. This is the true sacrifice of which the ancient sacrifices of the saints were but many and manifold symbols. This one sacrifice was prefigured, in a variety of ways, as though one idea were being expressed in many words to drive in the truth without boring the reader. It is the supreme and true sacrifice to which all false sacrifices have given place. (Chapter 20)
From these words, a number of observations about Augustine's thoughts on atonement (or the "how" of salvation) may be made. First, Augustine concludes (from his reading of Philippians 2:7 and 1 Timothy 2:5) that reconciliation between God and humankind began not on the cross, but with the incarnation; in the person of Jesus, God and human are one. Second, Christ went to the cross voluntarily; he is both priest (as God) and sacrifice (as human), rather than the victim of God's wrath. Third, this example of self-sacrifice teaches the church to practice self-offering in its daily life. Fourth, the complex sacrificial system described in the Old Testament employed "false sacrifices" that were only a shadow of "the supreme and true sacrifice" seen in the life and death of Jesus; the earlier sacrifices served a purpose in that they "prefigured" what was to come.
Here, Augustine conveys the atoning work of Christ Jesus as sacrifice, but not in penal substitutionary terms--that is, not as God punishing Jesus instead of us so that we will not die.
to be continued
Are You Emergent? (BOOK REVIEW: WHY WE'RE NOT EMERGENT)
Part XII
DeYoung concludes Why We're Not Emergent (By Two Guys Who Should Be) with an epilogue. As I started reading this last word, I was thinking that the authors were right--they should be emergent. Nothing in the epilogue changed my mind.
The epilogue's insights include the observation that Donald Miller is no Jonathan Edwards (I doubt that Miller would claim otherwise), as well as this assertion: "Most Christians and most churches go liberal for one of two reasons. Either they are disillusioned conservatives who have seen nothing but legalistic, angry fundamentalism, or they are passionate social activists who, in their desire to love everyone, end up rejecting nothing" (p. 247). DeYoung's lack of self-awareness is stunning. His theology is an example of the "legalistic, angry fundamentalism" that alienates many people. The persons concerned about social justice are not guilty of "rejecting nothing"--they reject "legalistic, angry fundamentalism" (not to mention injustice).
On page 253, Why We're Not Emergent comes--mercifully--to an end.
DeYoung concludes Why We're Not Emergent (By Two Guys Who Should Be) with an epilogue. As I started reading this last word, I was thinking that the authors were right--they should be emergent. Nothing in the epilogue changed my mind.
The epilogue's insights include the observation that Donald Miller is no Jonathan Edwards (I doubt that Miller would claim otherwise), as well as this assertion: "Most Christians and most churches go liberal for one of two reasons. Either they are disillusioned conservatives who have seen nothing but legalistic, angry fundamentalism, or they are passionate social activists who, in their desire to love everyone, end up rejecting nothing" (p. 247). DeYoung's lack of self-awareness is stunning. His theology is an example of the "legalistic, angry fundamentalism" that alienates many people. The persons concerned about social justice are not guilty of "rejecting nothing"--they reject "legalistic, angry fundamentalism" (not to mention injustice).
On page 253, Why We're Not Emergent comes--mercifully--to an end.
Are You Emergent? (BOOK REVIEW: WHY WE'RE NOT EMERGENT)
Part XI
Chapters 10 ("Real Topeka People: In Search of Community") and 11 ("Why I Don't Want a Cool Pastor") are both written by Kluck.
to be continued
Chapters 10 ("Real Topeka People: In Search of Community") and 11 ("Why I Don't Want a Cool Pastor") are both written by Kluck.
to be continued
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Are You Emergent? (BOOK REVIEW: WHY WE'RE NOT EMERGENT)
Part X
DeYoung argues in chapter 9 ("Jesus: Bringer of Peace, Bearer of Wrath") that the emergent understanding of the kingdom of God has too much "now" and not enough "not yet." Citing the work of New Testament scholar George Eldon Ladd as support, DeYoung writes, "[God's] reign is both present and future; it has come and is coming; it is already inaugurated and not yet consummated" (p. 184). This view of God's kingdom (or "reign") is not new; in fact, it is widely accepted today, and is voiced repeatedly in both missional and emergent literature.
It seems that DeYoung's concern, then, is that emergents place too much stress on the present kingdom. He understands (I think) that the emerging church emerged as a reaction to the reductionistic theology of evangelicalism, and that the emphasis on the "now" of the kingdom has been meant to serve as a corrective to an almost singular focus on disembodied souls going to heaven when people die. However, he thinks that "[t]he emergent emphasis of justice and compassion would be more of a helpful corrective if it went hand in hand with a firm, unashamed belief, made central and upfront, in the reality of everlasting punishment and everlasting reward, the resurrection of all men either to life or to judgment, and the necessity of faith in Jesus Christ" (p. 187). What again appears to be missing from DeYoung's thinking is an awareness of the importance of context; in the context of late modernity, evangelicalism had lost sight not of the things listed by DeYoung, but of the "now" of God's kingdom. Emphasizing this "now" was (and is, I think) sound missiology. Moreover, this emphasis does not require jettisoning any of the beliefs DeYoung lists.
As DeYoung continues, it becomes clear that he does not like the politics of many emergents--too left-leaning for his taste (DeYoung is not especially concerned about poverty and war, for example). He tries to take a neutral stance:
The chapter concludes with DeYoung's affirmation of the theory of penal substitutionary atonement and hell (nevermind that the deterministic logic of his Calvinism suggests that matters of heaven and hell are out of our hands). To his credit, DeYoung acknowledges that "[his] view of the atonement is not the only way to explain Christ's suffering and death" (p. 193). He makes clear, however, that he believes it to be essential. Here he parts company with the earliest creeds of the church (the Apostles' Creed and the Nicene Creed), which do not baptize a particular theory of the "how" of salvation. Instead, their writers deemed a narrative account of the person and work of Jesus Christ to be sufficient.
As for hell, DeYoung is hot for it. He gives eight reasons to love God's wrath. By the end of this chapter, the reader may be thinking, "Who needs a loving God when we've got a wrathful one?" The reader who makes it this far may also be convinced that he or she has experienced a preview of hell.
to be continued
DeYoung argues in chapter 9 ("Jesus: Bringer of Peace, Bearer of Wrath") that the emergent understanding of the kingdom of God has too much "now" and not enough "not yet." Citing the work of New Testament scholar George Eldon Ladd as support, DeYoung writes, "[God's] reign is both present and future; it has come and is coming; it is already inaugurated and not yet consummated" (p. 184). This view of God's kingdom (or "reign") is not new; in fact, it is widely accepted today, and is voiced repeatedly in both missional and emergent literature.
It seems that DeYoung's concern, then, is that emergents place too much stress on the present kingdom. He understands (I think) that the emerging church emerged as a reaction to the reductionistic theology of evangelicalism, and that the emphasis on the "now" of the kingdom has been meant to serve as a corrective to an almost singular focus on disembodied souls going to heaven when people die. However, he thinks that "[t]he emergent emphasis of justice and compassion would be more of a helpful corrective if it went hand in hand with a firm, unashamed belief, made central and upfront, in the reality of everlasting punishment and everlasting reward, the resurrection of all men either to life or to judgment, and the necessity of faith in Jesus Christ" (p. 187). What again appears to be missing from DeYoung's thinking is an awareness of the importance of context; in the context of late modernity, evangelicalism had lost sight not of the things listed by DeYoung, but of the "now" of God's kingdom. Emphasizing this "now" was (and is, I think) sound missiology. Moreover, this emphasis does not require jettisoning any of the beliefs DeYoung lists.
As DeYoung continues, it becomes clear that he does not like the politics of many emergents--too left-leaning for his taste (DeYoung is not especially concerned about poverty and war, for example). He tries to take a neutral stance:
I guess as a gospel minister I tend to focus on, well, the gospel--the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. I am dogmatic, yet humble (I hope), about orthodoxy, while I am open-minded, yet opinionated, about politics. That is to say, the difference between emerging churches and what I am aiming for in my church is the difference between unity based on social issues and unity based on theological issues. (p. 191)DeYoung's attempt to compartmentalize the theological and the political is more modern than it is biblical (the very word "kingdom" is political). In modernity, compartmentalization was commonly practiced, as if life could be taken apart like a machine (modernity's primary image) and the parts separated. It is not clear, though, that life works like a machine; for example, to try to keep theology and politics separate is to deny that theological teachings have political implications. The emergent (and missional) approach to church seeks to be holistic.
The chapter concludes with DeYoung's affirmation of the theory of penal substitutionary atonement and hell (nevermind that the deterministic logic of his Calvinism suggests that matters of heaven and hell are out of our hands). To his credit, DeYoung acknowledges that "[his] view of the atonement is not the only way to explain Christ's suffering and death" (p. 193). He makes clear, however, that he believes it to be essential. Here he parts company with the earliest creeds of the church (the Apostles' Creed and the Nicene Creed), which do not baptize a particular theory of the "how" of salvation. Instead, their writers deemed a narrative account of the person and work of Jesus Christ to be sufficient.
As for hell, DeYoung is hot for it. He gives eight reasons to love God's wrath. By the end of this chapter, the reader may be thinking, "Who needs a loving God when we've got a wrathful one?" The reader who makes it this far may also be convinced that he or she has experienced a preview of hell.
to be continued
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